Loyalty
by Johanna's Motivational Insults
Summary: Newly-minted Peacekeeper Johanna Mason is assigned to District 12 and meets a coworker and a young hunter who together will cause her to question her worldview and her allegiance to the Capitol.
1. The Unexpected

A/N: This will all become evident in the first chapter, but to save any confusion early on, the story begins pre-canon and Johanna Mason is younger than in canon and originates from District 2. There will be eventual Joniss.

Warning: There will be some potentially triggering material in this fic, mostly involving violence and morally iffy ground where relationships are concerned. To avoid spoilers, I won't go into any further details.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games series or any of the characters.

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><p>A slight shuddering of the train car rouses me from my light slumber and I groan as I try to get my bearings. Once I get them, I wish I hadn't. I'd pretend I'm en route to the Capitol on the legendary tribute train, but the faint squealing of the wheels beneath me and the dankness of the sleeping compartment make that impossible before I even open my eyes. Nope. This is the first day of my new life, alright, but not at all in the way I'd been planning. I open my eyes.<p>

The cabin is dimly lit even with the lights turned off, so it must be shortly after dawn on Sunday morning. But at this time of year, that doesn't necessarily mean it's early. I'd check on the time if I actually cared. I boarded this train in District 11 yesterday with the most minimal of pleasantries to my comrades supervising the miners returning from their coal transport assignment, and I'm in no more of a mood to socialize over breakfast. I roll over with another audible groan and squeeze my eyes shut again. It's not long before I'm disturbed by an insistent rapping on my door. It's probably that bossy bitch again. Purnia, I think.

"Johanna!" A female voice barks. Yep, that's her. "Mason, get up and get your suit on! We're five minutes out!"

I'm not particularly enthused. Being assigned to Twelve was just the latest in a long series of misfortunes I've been experiencing over the last few months. It's the shittiest posting there is, nothing like the plum assignments in the Capitol or my home district. I guess I earned it with my terrific attitude during Peacekeeper training, but who could blame me after all the bullshit I'd just gone through? I close my eyes once more and picture myself lodging an axe in Clove's face. It only makes me feel marginally better, but gives me enough energy to roll off the bed and onto my feet.

When I step out into the chilly November air several minutes later, I inhale deeply and immediately balk at the scent hanging heavily in the air. What the fuck is that? Nothing like the pure mountain air I'm used to. I spit out whatever saliva is in my mouth and now tinged with the nasty odor. A hearty laugh sounds behind me and I wheel to face whoever is finding amusement in my discomfort. It's that big redhead, Darian or whatever.

"You'll get used to the smell," he chortles, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "Don't worry, Jo, it's actually the worst thing about this posting. You'll come to like it here, in time."

"It's Johanna," I tell him icily. He just grins wider.

"I'ma call you Jo," he proclaims with a light punch to my shoulder. "Try to keep your sense of humor, Mason. You're going to need it."

"What do you mean?" I inquire despite my irritation.

"It can be a depressing place to land if you come from somewhere richer. So, anywhere else, really. You'll see a lot of things here you never expected to see." I look up at him quizzically to find his face uncharacteristically serious. "The rampant poverty can be pretty sobering. We call it 'culture shock.'"

"Okay," I mumble, unconvinced.

"You'll understand when I show you the town later," he assures me. "I'm your designated tour guide."

"Actually?"

"Sort of," he shrugs. "I'm on your shift and live next door to you, so I was the natural choice to show you around the barracks and escort you to your entry meeting with Cray."

I toss my bags into the cargo hold of one of the hummers driving the workers to the mines, then we hop onto the side and hitch a ride for a minute or two before our vehicle stops. The redhead hops down and motions for me to do the same, opens the hold and takes the heavier of my two bags despite my weak objections. I have my pride but I'm exhausted because I also have a recent history of sleep deprivation. And a mild hangover. He bangs on the side of the hummer and it takes off, leaving us to continue to the west on foot down a side road. The path is a touch icy but it's obviously been recently cleared what with the dirty ten-inch drifts piled up on either side. There's maybe three inches of powder on the grass surrounding us, a far cry from what I'm accustomed to in the mountains.

We reach our destination in just a couple of minutes and Darian directs me to the north end of the building, where I round the corner and am faced with a door with a large M over it. He swipes a key card and the door clicks unlocked with a buzz. "These open every door to the building as well as the owner's quarters," he informs me, indicating the card. "You'll get one at your entry meeting. We'll just stash your stuff in mine for now so it's secure, okay?" We weave through a couple of short hallways to a door marked M8.

To say I'm unimpressed with the living quarters would be a massive understatement. I have no idea what they're like in other districts, to be fair, but my immediate impulse is to curse this outpost when the door swings open and I see that the room is maybe 8 x10 feet. It has a twin bed tucked into the far right corner, a small dresser along the wall at its foot and a hanging rack bolted to the front wall of the room. The far left corner contains a desk with a short built-in bookshelf continuing along the wall towards me. A tiny bedside table rounds out the furniture and sits below a window in the wall opposite us. The boy forges ahead into his room and tosses his own overnight bag onto the bed before gently setting my overstuffed duffel bag down at its foot.

"They're all the same, except lots of rooms don't have windows," he tells me as he drops into a sitting position on his bed. "We're some of the lucky ones."

"Be still my heart," I wisecrack, dumping my remaining bag next to the other one as I join him in his limited space.

Darian smiles knowingly and points at the window. "See for yourself." I follow his directive and pull back the curtains, and I immediately understand. His west-facing window has a direct view of the forest beyond the high chain-link fence marking the district boundary. All green and white and beautiful. I don't ask permission before unlatching the window and cracking it open, immediately enjoying the cool breeze and occasional birdcall that can now waft into the room. "What did I tell you?" I almost manage to smile.

"It's beautiful," I admit.

"You have the same view. You're in M7, to my right." I nod blankly, continuing to stare out the window. I barely hear him say, "Fence is supposed to be electrified but pretty much never is. If it was, our showers would be cold. We hardly get any electricity out here." I only turn my head when a scraping ruckus behind me disrupts my tranquil moment. The boy has dragged a storage trunk out from the hollow beneath his bed. "You get one of these as well, for your personal effects." He gazes up at me for a moment, chewing on his lip. "It might seem lonely here at first, but the undercrowding is actually a good thing. There's supposed to be ten of us sharing each communal bathroom, but even with you we only have seven in ours. Each of the three wings is supposed to hold forty Peacekeepers, but we have maybe eighty here now in total." He shrugs. "We don't need more than that, though. Twenty at night and thirty for mornings and afternoons is just fine around here." I still say nothing and he scratches his scalp through the messy locks behind his ear. "Uh, any questions?"

"If I had any, it's not like I could get a word in edgewise," I remark.

"My apologies," he replies with just a hint of sarcasm. A corner of my mouth quirks upwards.

"Is our whole wing morning people, then?" I ask after a moment of reflection. "Hence 'M wing'?" He smirks and nods.

"And they say Peacekeepers are all dumb fucks," he muses, clearly impressed. I snort in amusement. "They do that to keep the noise disturbances to a minimum. Let us all get a decent sleep."

"God knows I could use that," I mutter.

"I can't promise you I'm a quiet neighbor, but I go to bed at a decent time." He jerks his thumb over his shoulder towards my room. "Thena, on the other side of you, she's like a mouse. Barely hear a peep out of her." He suddenly grins. "Unless she has a guy over." An ironic chuckle bursts from my lips.

"Awesome, free spank bank material," I quip. Darian narrows his eyes as though to ascertain whether I'm joking or not, but he still laughs.

"I think I like you, Mason. You're funny."

We exit the front door of the barracks maybe ten minutes later after a brief excursion to the common area where the three wings come together. It's mostly comprised of meeting rooms, a kitchen, and a large recreation hall known as the commune. We walk the two minutes back to the main road and then head north, away from the train station. It turns out the Head Peacekeeper's house is on the southwest edge of town, only a few minutes on foot from our living quarters. It takes us a little longer because we detour along the road instead of taking the shortcut nearer to the fence.

My companion ascends the few steps to the front door and knocks heartily. We hear a muffled command to come in just as I catch up, so he opens the door and ushers me into a small office bordering the foyer.

"Commander Cray, Agent Johanna Mason," he introduces me. I approach and size up the man behind the desk as he stands to greet me. He's a grandfatherly man of at least sixty, all white hair and warm smiles.

"Agent Mason, welcome to District Twelve." He extends a friendly hand. When I reach out to meet it, he clasps mine and gives it one firm shake before reciprocating the introduction. "I'm Commander Cray, head of the Peacekeeping corps for this outpost."

"And for the whole district, I understand?" I ask as he resumes his sitting position.

"Correct. Twelve is small in size as well as population, so only one outpost is necessary. Our force here is also small, but nonetheless I doubt you will work directly under me very often." I almost crack a crude joke out of habit but settle for a snicker under my breath. The younger man beside me eyes me up with his peripheral vision and smirks, but thankfully it seems to have gone over Cray's head. I wouldn't want to scandalize the sweet old bastard and give him a stroke. "As a member of the morning shift, your unit leader and direct superior will most often be Captain Stark. I assume you met her on the train in."

I stare blankly until Darian clarifies, "Purnia." Oh, well that explains a lot. No one on the train had bothered to tell me she was an officer.

"Ah, yes, of course," I reply.

"Good." The old man shuffles some papers on his desk, plucks one out of the pile and holds it at a calculated distance to bring its content into focus. "Seems you can retire to the barracks at your leisure after this meeting, Mason," he smiles after a moment of squinting. "Your regular days off are scheduled to be Sunday and Wednesday, with the exceptions of cross-district assignments and special occasions when we need to be out in full force, such as emergencies and the yearly reaping." My eye twitches at the reminder of how my plans for that day have changed so dramatically, but I nod my understanding. "Morning shift reports at 5:45 AM sharp in the briefing room and is relieved by the afternoon shift at 2 PM." He looks at Darian briefly before asking me, "I assume Agent Hallett pointed it out to you during your tour of the barracks?"

"Yes, sir," we answer in unison. Creepy. I'm turning into one of these drones already. Hallett is released to his regular duties before long but tells me to meet him by the Justice Building after I've finished my paperwork and Cray has dismissed me.

The Justice Building is of course easily identifiable by its size, but I discover my tour guide is as well when I finish the short trip to the town square some time later. Though his half-visored helmet covers his telltale red locks, his height gives him away even from a distance. I suppose he's not much taller than your average man, actually, but at my height most people seem tall. He spots me approaching him and raises a hand in greeting, stepping away from the other two Peacekeepers in front of the stone stage.

"Hello, Jo," he grins when I get closer. I decide to let that roll off my back because I can tell he's just calling me that to annoy me.

"So no more 'Agent Mason?' Does anyone go by their last names around here, _Hallett_?"

"Mostly just around Cray. And even he doesn't care much about formalities." I narrow my eyes dubiously and Darian elaborates, "He seems that way when you meet him, but he lets down the act pretty quickly once he gets used to you. You'll come to find he's really lax and usually friendly. Sometimes too friendly."

"Yeah," I snort, "he seems like kind of a pussy, frankly." The redhead raises an eyebrow and I backpedal, "But I guess I can't complain that our first meeting was pleasant."

"You should hope all your meetings are," he advises me. "Cray seems nice but he also has a temper. And a drinking problem. Those are among his many vices."

"Duly noted." I turn around to survey the square and let out an enormous yawn, stretching my arms above my head. Hallett steps up beside me and looks on amusedly.

"You get used to the early start," he promises me. "And there's coffee in the commune."

"It's cool, I'm a morning person anyway." Off his unconvinced expression, I explain, "I've just been sleep deprived lately. And I'm not usually _that_ much of a morning person, but I'd still rather that than work until ten."

"Six to two is usually better timing if you want to trade at the Hob, anyway." I'm about to ask him what he means when he suddenly asks me, "You haven't eaten yet today, have you?" When I shake my head no, he starts off towards a row of shops to the side of the square and beckons me to follow. He gestures around the square as we walk and informs me, "This is where the 'rich people' live around here." He must catch my unimpressed disposition as I survey the decrepit town center because he snorts, "Yeah. They baby us in Two. I told you, culture shock. Just wait 'til you see the Seam. That's the slums of the district." My companion exchanges smiles and nods with several locals as we make our way to the shops, concluding our journey at a bakery.

"It's mostly merchants that live in the actual square, above their shops, but the rest of the town is well off too, by District 12 standards," he explains before pushing open the door. The overwhelming warm and sweet smell of bread engulfs me and sets my stomach growling before I can even follow him inside.

"You can just abandon your post to go shopping?" I ask incredulously. "It really is lax around here, isn't it?"

"I'm on square duty," he grins mischievously. "I'm still in the square, aren't I?" His smile almost draws one onto my lips. On a better day, it might. He exudes a certain boyish charm that I find simultaneously comforting and entertaining. And fucking annoying.

"What do you want?" he asks suddenly. I blink myself back to the moment and try to respond verbally, but he just smirks and clarifies, "I mean in terms of baked goods."

"Oh." I glance over at the product displays briefly but then protest, "No, you don't have to buy me anything, dude-"

"I insist. My treat." I raise my eyebrows combatively, but he just shakes his head and orders a half dozen of something I can't pronounce from the blond young man behind the counter. He pulls one from the package before shaking the bag in front of my face as we step back outside. I take a grateful bite out of one of the fluffy crescent-shaped pastries and can't help the sound of pleasure that comes out of my mouth. "Delicious, huh?" he asks amusedly. I nod and grab another pastry before he can pull the bag away, resulting in another jovial laugh from the fellow. He's just starting on his second one when he elbows me and points out a young blond girl across the square.

"That kid's a rarity," he says. I give him a curious look, so he asks me, "Did you notice anything different about the baker's kid and most of people you see around the square, in comparison to the miners from the train?"

"Their clothes," I answer instantly. "You can tell who's poor and who's dirt poor."

Hallett chuckles, "Okay, but what if they weren't wearing clothes?" I morph my face into one of mock horror and he rephrases, "Like, if they were all wearing the same clothes, could you still tell the difference?" I try to recall the men and women on the train that I barely paid any attention to. I take another look at the girl in the ratty clothes that don't match her joyful smile and try to determine what else doesn't fit. It takes me a moment, but I get it.

"The merchant class is blond," I surmise. "Or mostly, anyway. Their hair is lighter. And they have lighter skin."

"Bingo." He thumbs over his shoulder at the bakery and comments, "That guy and his two little brothers, all blond." He nods toward the peppy girl with the two blond braids and the platter of cheese for trade and continues, "She lives in the Seam, has a townie mother and a Seam father. Or had, I should say. Father died in a mine explosion some four years ago. I wasn't here yet, but that's the story."

"So you know the kid," I probe.

"Kind of. I know her sister." He takes another bite and notes through the flakey mouthful, "Sister looks Seam, though. Dark hair and skin, gray eyes. You wouldn't know they're related." He swallows before turning and grinning at me. "I swear to god, I'm the only redhead in the whole district."

"Well aren't you so fucking special, mister know-it-all?" I drawl.

"Yes ma'am, I definitely am," he chuckles. "I'm a rare find." He tosses me the bag with the two remaining pastries as he walks back towards the Justice Building and says, "Keep 'em. I just wanted a mid-morning snack." He licks his fingers and adds, "Bakery is the best thing about this place."

This reminds me of our first conversation this morning, so when I catch up I ask him, "So tell me, why exactly am I going to like it here? These are good, but if they're the highlight of my existence for the next twenty years I'm not gonna be impressed."

"It's a good vibe," he muses after a moment of thought, "in the corps and with the locals." He catches my eye and smiles, "It's peaceful here. Nobody really causes any trouble, we just get to patrol around and then go home. No need to engage in any violence."

Oh, how perfect. My fucking dream job.

***o***

The only two thoughts I can manage right now aside from how much I want to kill Clove are "how did I get here?" and "this fucking sucks." I flopped down on the lumpy bed in my tiny room in the shitty barracks maybe half an hour ago and haven't bothered trying to move since. Things haven't felt this bleak since I enlisted with the Peacekeepers early last month. It's been a whirlwind six weeks of training since then, during which I could lose myself in the drills and studying for the written exam. Even when I was riding the trains here it wasn't so depressing, because at least I was in transit and didn't yet have to face what has become of my life. But now I'm settled in and there's nothing else to distract me from my thoughts.

My dreams are gone. They were annihilated along with my chances of being selected as the designated volunteer for the 74th Hunger Games, all thanks to that traitorous bitch. Years of sweat and planning and political networking wasted. Some people say they wish they could get a blank slate and start all over, but it's overrated. When I realized I'd gone from frontrunner for DV to a pariah with no future in the Games, I was at a total loss as to how to rebuild my life. I had no idea what I wanted to do or who I wanted to be outside of the Games. I'd never considered what I might want to do for a living until then because I hadn't seen any reason to. I'd planned to be either a victor or dead.

When you train for over half your life to do one job and then lose the opportunity to do it, you hardly know what to do with yourself. Peacekeeping was the most fitting profession for my skill set, so it seemed like the natural choice. I wasn't knowledgeable enough to work in Central Defense, not because I'm dumb but because I'd never cared much about school. Why would I? I'd probably have ended up stonecutting if I'd stayed in Two, and that sounded like the most boring job imaginable. So I'd made the choice to opt out of my final year of the reaping to join the Peacekeepers. I was recently eighteen and had already finished my schooling, and I wasn't about to wait an extra nine months to start my twenty-year career that ended with a livable pension when there was such a miniscule chance that I'd be reaped naturally. I could refuse to let the designated volunteer take my place in that scenario, but the odds weren't in my favor.

It's too depressing in here and I have to get out. Do something, try to think about something else. Go hang out in the square again or explore my new home. Home. That's laughable. I get up and start collecting the pieces of my armor that I tossed haphazardly around the room upon entry. We don't have to wear armor or the standard uniform when off duty, but we're not allowed to carry a weapon unless we're suited up. And I'm not gonna lie, I like the power trip. The white, silver, and black off-duty clothing we're supposed to wear outside the barracks still delineates members of the force, but there's something about armor and a gun that feels intimidating and official.

I round the corner from the M wing door and squint into the painful glare reflecting off the snow. It's getting close to noon but the winter sun is still low in the sky and blinding me even without the reflection off the white powder. Maybe someone in town sells sunglasses. Probably not. Who around here could afford them? I should have thought to bring some with me. I might as well check, though; it gives me an excuse to wander into town, and I have time to kill.

I start heading for the road, but I'm suddenly distracted by some birds singing somewhere behind me. I backtrack around the corner of the barracks and the forest comes into view, followed shortly by two of the creatures flying out of a nearby tree and landing on the fence. I smile wryly. These little guys can just come and go as they please. They're not hemmed in here like cattle. Lucky bastards. I never minded being held within the confines of Two, especially since my village was nowhere near the border and it didn't affect me, but I'm sure I'm going to go stir-crazy in this hellhole. I approach the birds' perch and they titter nervously before taking off over my head and towards Cray's house. I turn to watch their departure, and am about to head back to the road when something farther down the fence catches my eye.

Is that-? No way. I cautiously approach what looks to be a gap in the fence some thirty yards away. When I get close and confirm that that's indeed what it is, I check over my shoulder for any witnesses. I'm still very much within sight of the barracks, but I don't see anyone so I decide to take a chance. I've never been much of one for following rules, anyway. On second thought, maybe Peacekeeping wasn't the best profession for me after all. I squat down to take a look at the hole in the chain-link. It's probably just big enough for me to squeeze through in my bulletproof vest, so I'm grateful we don't have to wear that awful heavy tactical armor here like they do in some districts. I grab at the edge of the hole to widen it and toss my helmet through, and get a very pleasant surprise when a small section of fencing peels away from the thin metal post it should be attached to. I actually laugh out loud. I can fucking walk through this fence no problem. I take another look back at the barracks. So close to it, I have to wonder if I'm the only Peacekeeper who's ever gotten cabin fever. I make a mental note to ask Darian later. He seems chill enough to be forthright about that sort of thing.

It's fucking gorgeous out here. It still smells bad close to the fence, but as I venture farther into the woods it starts to smell more like trees and snow. More like home. The trees are undoubtedly a different species here, but it smells like nature and not industry, in any case. I wander for maybe five or ten minutes through the evergreen forest and eventually find myself smiling at a rabbit skittering along a fallen trunk and down into the snow, leaving adorable little tracks in its wake. I don't know when the last time was that I genuinely smiled. Sometime before Clove turned on me, that's for sure.

I would consider heading back already if it weren't for my clear tracks in the eight inches of snow that's piled up in the forest, much more than what remains in the town itself. I don't have to worry about getting lost out here. I would probably still be able to track my own path without obvious footprints because I learned a bit about tracking in preparation for my Games, but I still wouldn't want to risk getting lost in the forest on my first day in a new district. What an auspicious beginning that would be. I've started to move my eyes from my own trail of footprints back to the path of sorts in front of me when they detect a scuffed up area of snow several yards to my left. I follow it with my eyes to its terminus, a tree a short distance away. I smile even wider, a familiar predatory urge rising up in me that I haven't felt it in far too long. No animal leaves tracks like that. I start to approach the tree, examining it closer, and easily make out the gaps in the snow settled on the lower branches where it has been compacted by a human hand or foot. I strut the remaining distance to the tree and cock my gun, aiming it up into the branches.

"How about you come down before I shoot you down?" I bellow pompously. When there's no response, I shrug and click my safety off. "Suit yourself."

"Okay, okay!" a voice rings down from above me. It's deep but feminine. I watch as a young woman in a leather jacket, tattered pants, and hunting boots emerges from the foliage. I grin when I spot the bag slung over her shoulder and the bow and quiver strapped to her back. A poacher. Maybe I'll get to engage in some violence after all. She drops to the ground a few feet in front of me and I go to twist her arm behind her back and pin her to the tree, but then she turns around. She's younger than I'd assumed. Maybe sixteen, if even that. It almost makes me want to be merciful. Her stunning good looks probably contribute to that same impulse. She's a few inches taller than me but skinny as fuck, though her telltale Seam features explain that. Dark brown hair hanging in a braid over her shoulder, olive-toned skin, stormy gray eyes. I blink and try to regain my focus.

"What's in the bag, huh?" I demand, taking a menacing step forward. She doesn't resist me when I slide the bag down her arm and peek inside to see three dead rabbits. "Don't you know what happens to people who poach off the Capitol's land, little girl?" I drawl condescendingly.

"Little?" she asks, pointedly looking down at me. I don't feel like being merciful after all. I drop the bag and grab her wrist in a flash and slam her against the tree in the position I'd been planning to only a moment ago.

"Oh, so you're a poacher _and_ a smartass?" I challenge her, rubbing her face into the bark. She struggles to free her arm but I twist it farther behind her back until she yelps in pain. "What was that?" I snarl.

"Please," she pants, "stop." I smirk in satisfaction and pull away from the tree, keeping an iron grip on her wrist as she spins to face me again. "Look," she petitions, "you're making a big mistake."

"Am I?" I laugh. "Says the girl who's out in the woods committing a capital offense."

"Well why are you out here?" she asks me accusingly.

"I'm on patrol," I lie, and she outright laughs in my face.

"Yeah, and I'm just out for a walk," she mocks me, pointing at the game bag with her free hand.

"You'd better check your attitude, kid," I growl, tightening my fist. She grimaces and her eyes turn pleading. I can't help but relax my grip in response, but still say, "Or I won't even wait until we're back in town to blow your brains out."

"Look, just take me to Cray," she begs. "He'll explain."

"A criminal begging to be taken to the Head Peacekeeper for judgment?" I interject, astounded. I release her and size her up. "Huh. That's something I never expected to see."

"You must be new," she mutters, rubbing her wrist. "You'll probably see a lot of things you never expected to around here."

"Yeah, that's what Darian said." The girl's brow knits in confusion.

"Darian?" she asks. "Who's Darian?"

I shrug and answer, "Peacekeeper who was on my train in. Tall dude, carrot top."

"You mean Darius," she says assuredly.

"What?"

"His name is Darius," she repeats, more forcefully this time.

"How the hell do you know his name?" I demand incredulously, hoping my embarrassment is not too apparent. I gesture at her scrawny build. "What, are you blowing him for bread crumbs or something?" The girl's face reddens and she opens her mouth to say something, but then snaps it shut and just glowers at me indignantly. "Yeah. That's right," I smirk, stepping closer. "Lesson one, learn to keep your mouth shut." I grab her by the lapel of her jacket and pull her past me, back in the direction I came from. I hook her bag back over her shoulder and nudge her in the back with the barrel of my gun in a silent order to get moving. "Except for Peacekeepers with bread crumbs," I add snarkily.

My extensive combat training pays great dividends when the kid unexpectedly whips around and takes a swing at my face. I'm completely caught off guard but my reflexes kick in and I get my left elbow up to block the blow. I release my gun with that hand and loop it around her neck, trapping her in a headlock before she can even blink. When she grabs at my arm and tries to wriggle out of my grip, I kick her just below the back of her knee and give her a shove from behind, forcing her down into the snow. By the time she rolls onto her back, I have the gun trained squarely on her head.

"Wow, you're really fucking brainless, aren't you?" I ask, shaking my head in disbelief. "You want to give me even more reasons to shoot you?"

"I would never do something like that," she spits furiously. "I'd starve first. I'd rather lose my life than my pride."

"Oh, good. You're well on your way." I continue to cock my weapon threateningly but honestly have no plans to pull the trigger. This girl is driving me nuts, but despite all my talk I don't actually want to kill her. But I do want to show her who's boss. If I let her off the hook, she'll walk all over me for the next twenty years. "Give me your boots," I order her harshly. She just stares up at me unblinkingly. "Did I stutter?" I taunt mockingly. Her eyes narrow in confusion or anger, possibly both. She sits up and loosens her laces, pulls the boots off and tosses them at my feet. I gesture at her stocking feet that she's keeping elevated above the snow. "Socks." She shoots me this look of exasperated disbelief and I pointedly click my safety on and off. "Socks," I repeat.

"Fine." She peels them off, balls them up and arcs the bundle up in the air for me to catch. "Anything else?" she asks with just slightly exaggerated subservience. Enough to piss me off but not enough for me to legitimately be able to say she was resisting. I consider making her take even more clothing off for continuing to give me attitude, but that's fucked up, even for me. Instead I just bend down and pick up her boots.

"Let's go," I order with gesture of my gun towards my path of footprints. She gets to her feet and starts trudging through the powder.

We are within sight of the fence when she turns around and says, "I can't take these into the district," pointing at the weapons on her back. She's resolutely constraining her features in an indifferent mask, but I detect tears pooling in her eyes and already noticed the conspicuous quaking of her legs several minutes ago. Her lips have started to quiver now too. I almost feel bad. I only realize I've been staring for awhile when she rolls her eyes and reaches over her shoulder the grab the bow. I shake my head to snap myself out of it.

"What, you just leave your weapons out in the woods?" I query. She nods. I guess that makes sense. Walking around armed is an invitation for a bullet, at least in a place like this. In Two, we could get away with it to some extent as long as we were young enough to be reaped. The Peacekeepers there always turn a blind eye to our illegal training. Why wouldn't they? Most of them are from Two anyway. I'm about to give her permission to stow them somewhere when I realize that that would somewhat negate my story. She could claim she just found the rabbits somewhere, and if she knows Cray like she says she does, he might be more inclined to believe her than a brand new Peacekeeper. Probably not, but who knows? "You think I'm gonna let you hide half the evidence?" I snarl. "How stupid do you think I am?" She opens her mouth but then thinks better of answering that question. "Wise choice," I tell her.

When we're back inside the district boundary, she heads straight for Cray's house like she's a regular visitor. Maybe she is. I catch up and then start to break for the street when we get close, but she quickly speaks up. "Back door," she says. "Trust me."

"Why?" I argue, mostly just because I'm not taking unexplained orders from this little shit.

"Because Cray will be really angry if anyone sees me carrying these," she explains through chattering teeth, lifting her bow to indicate it. "And if your Peacekeeper friends see you hauling me in to see him, you'll never live it down." I'm actually really starting to get nervous now. Either this kid is totally full of herself or I'm making a mistake. But at least it's an honest mistake, if so. Who can blame a new Peacekeeper for upholding the law? Isn't that what we're supposed to do?

I join her on the back steps of the Head Peacekeeper's house and rap loudly on the door. I grasp her right upper arm tightly as I hear footsteps approaching, and when the door swings inward I smirk proudly and point at my captive. I glance over at her to see her cocking an expectant eyebrow at my boss and looking far too comfortable in this situation, in my opinion. I uneasily turn to look at Cray again, who rubs his brow and lets out a heavy sigh.

"Terrific," he mutters unenthusiastically. He waves us inside and says, "Miss Everdeen, I see you've made the acquaintance of the newest member of our force."

"That's one way of putting it," she grumbles.

"You're lucky you're still alive," he chastises her. "You know better than to bring your weapons into the district."

"She made me. 'For evidence,'" the girl snarks in explanation.

"She found you in the forest?" He turns to me and pries bewilderedly, "What were you doing out there?"

"She was on patrol," Everdeen wisecracks smugly. I'd like to punch her. But this isn't like when we met fifteen minutes ago; I get the feeling I would get in trouble if I did now. Something about her demeanor and how Cray interacts with her makes me feel small and out of place, like I'm some nuisance, some inside joke. That stupid new Peacekeeper. Our power dynamics seem to have abruptly flipped, and I feel even more helpless than angry.

Cray is about to respond when he notices the boots in my hand. He looks down at the girl's patchy red and white feet and shakes his head. "I should explain something to you, Agent Mason," he says, catching my eye. "We have an unofficial policy against harassing poachers in these parts."

"What?" I ask dumbly.

"Oh, some Peacekeepers still do, but I discourage it, and most of them understand that they're only hurting themselves by cracking down on illegal hunting and gathering." When I just stare at him in confusion, he elucidates, "I'm sure you've noticed that Peacekeeper rations aren't the tastiest thing out there. At most outposts, you can buy better food legally if that's how you want to spend your pay, but we don't exactly have an abundance of it here. We're lucky if our perishables don't spoil by the time they make it to District 12, so we're stuck with whatever we can get." He points at Everdeen. "She and her boyfriend are your best crack at getting a half-decent cut of meat in this town."

"He's not my boyfriend," she snaps. He waves her off patronizingly.

"Regardless, the poachers are doing no harm, and we all benefit from the arrangement. We get fresh meat and produce, and they get to support their families."

"Support their families?" I gesture in Everdeen's direction. "She's just a kid."

"I'm sixteen in May," the girl protests irritably.

"I think you underestimate just how impoverished this district is, Mason," Cray answers. "People are starving, desperate. It's not at all uncommon around here for young teenagers to try to make some extra money."

"Well you'd know a lot about desperate young teenagers, now wouldn't you?" Everdeen mumbles sardonically, almost as though she's talking to herself. But we both hear her. Cray turns towards her dangerously.

"Pardon me?" he growls, eyes narrowing. I finally see the intimidation on the girl's face that I'd been trying so hard to procure earlier, but she doesn't cower or break down into bumbling apologies and explanations. She stands her ground proudly. She probably has too much pride for her own good.

Her pride. She refuses to lose her pride. Shit, that's what's going on here. There's a connection between my tour guide's comments about Cray being too friendly and having many vices and the poacher's fit of rage at my cracks about her prostituting herself, a connection that dawns on me just as Cray's hand snaps out and smacks her forcefully on the cheek. I spot the reflexive tears welling up in her eyes when her head swivels around from the impact, and I almost step in in her defense until I remember I'm supposed to be on his side. Then again, he's not supposed to exchange money or goods for sexual favors, let alone commit statutory rape while doing so. He's not the one who needs protection in this scenario.

"You watch your mouth, miss Everdeen," Cray seethes. "Just because I overlook your poaching doesn't mean I'll hesitate to punish you for other infractions. Or would you like a good lashing in the town square?" A muscle twitches in Everdeen's jaw and her gaze is still hard, but she shakes her head.

"What kind of fucked up place is this?" I remark in astonishment. I expected there to be corruption in the Peacekeeping corps wherever I landed, but I thought it would be more along the lines of excessive brutality than laxity and solicitation. Excessive brutality is more my style. It's what I was trained to do. I glance to my left and catch Everdeen staring at me with raised eyebrows, a smirk fighting its way onto her face. More pressingly, Cray now turns to me with the same expression he just leveled at the girl and I quickly backpedal. "Pardon my language, sir, but I thought I knew the laws of this country. And it seems you all operate under your own set of them out here," I say, sweeping my hand around to indicate them both.

"Desperate times call for desperate measures, for all of us," Cray responds icily. Desperate for what? To get laid? I don't make the same mistake Everdeen did and say that aloud. "The sooner you get accustomed to how things work around here, the better it will be for you, Agent Mason." He looks between us disdainfully and his eyes settle on the poacher's feet. "I'd tell you both to get out of my sight, but we can't have Everdeen walking back to the Seam on those feet." He turns to me. "Mason, would you be so kind? I'm sure you're familiar with the treatment for frostbite." Of course I am. I'm from District 2. "Bathroom's down the hall on the left," he says, indicating where to go. Then he extends his hand to Everdeen. "I'll take your weapons for safekeeping. And put your kills in my cooler." She eyes him warily but nods her assent and hands over the bow.

While Cray relieves Everdeen of her quiver and bag, I venture from the hallway and scan his living room for a blanket. I spot one and grab it to bring with me, almost running into Cray on his way by. "May I?" I ask. He nods. I've just turned to walk away when he speaks again.

"Mason?" I poke my head back into the room to see him stashing the rabbits in an icebox in the adjacent kitchen. He catches my eye and warns me, "If the district's best hunter ends up crippled because of your recklessness, I can promise you your career here will be unpleasant."

I nod stiffly before turning to Everdeen and pointing down the hall. Her smug smirk makes a comeback and she brags, "What did I tell you?"

"Shut up," I grumble with a little shove to her back. I sit her down on the edge of the bathtub and turn on the taps as soon as we arrive.

"Don't make it too hot," she cautions me. "It'll just cause more damage."

"I know what I'm doing," I huff as I kneel down beside the taps.

"Yeah right," she scoffs, "like anyone in the Capitol ever gets frostbite."

"I'm not from the Capitol." When she doesn't respond, I look up and see an expression of genuine surprise on her face. "What, you couldn't tell from my accent?" I tease her. "Or lack thereof, I should say." I hate the way the Capitol people speak, all high and squeaky. It sounds like someone stabbing a mouse with a fork repeatedly. A Capitol accent is considered sort of posh in District Two, but my voice is high enough as it is and I've never felt the need to augment that with some ridiculous inflection.

"One, Two, or Four?" she rattles off. The career districts. I'm not sure what led her to that assumption. Decent fighters, ergo Peacekeepers?

"Two," I tell her. I don't tell her I doubt I've ever met a Peacekeeper who wasn't from District 2. I have a feeling we're not supposed to disseminate that kind of information to the locals. I've heard that a small percentage of us are Capitol citizens, but they often get stationed there after their training. You certainly wouldn't find any of them in a place like this.

I take to swirling my hand in the rising water and, satisfied that it's a good enough temperature, catch the poacher's eyes and instruct her, "Take your pants off." Redness immediately overcomes her cheeks as she stares back at me, unblinking and wide-eyed, and I feel an immediate rush of heat to my face. "I mean, they're wet," I explain awkwardly, unsure if her own blush is from anger or embarrassment. "You should remove any wet clothing and get bundled up in something warm and dry." I hand her the blanket and make a point of staring into the water while she strips off her pants and wraps the blanket around her waist.

Satisfied with the water level, I turn the taps off as she sits back down. I silently motion to the tub and she obediently swivels on her ass to dip her feet in. She hisses almost immediately, wincing but doggedly keeping her feet submerged. Pins and needles, the best part of rewarming. I've had to do this several times myself and I can recall it's far from pleasant. She relaxes marginally after a few moments and absent-mindedly rubs her cheek where the blush didn't entirely dissipate. I can see the remnants of a handprint now that she's turned towards the tub.

"Are you alright?" I ask on impulse.

Everdeen squints at me disbelievingly for several seconds before adopting that neutral expression again and reminding me, "My face is the least of my worries right now." I sort of want to apologize. I don't.

"You'll be fine," I assure her cavalierly. "I've seen much worse with no permanent damage. I'd actually classify this as frostnip." She raises a dubious eyebrow. "No, seriously, you'll be walking out of here within half an hour. Trust me."

"Because Peacekeepers are so trustworthy," she mumbles sardonically.

"Sounds like you're friendly with Darian," I point out.

"Darius," she reminds me pointedly. "And he's okay. He's Hob."

This rings a bell and I question her, "What is the Hob, anyway? He mentioned that too."

"Black market," she says far too casually for being in the Head Peacekeeper's home. Twelve really is a special place. "It's where I sell most of my kills. Darius is a frequent customer." She eyes up my uniform. "Lots of you are."

"So that's how they all know you," I ruminate. "Why'd I'd never live down dragging you over here." She nods, refocusing on the water, and I find myself staring again. A few tendrils of hair have escaped her braid and are hanging loose along her clenched jaw. Another stirring of guilt afflicts my stomach when my eyes dart down to see her fingers whitening from being clamped around the edge of the tub. In an effort to distract her from her current discomfort, I clear my throat and venture, "So if I'll be seeing you around as much as it sounds like, I should know what to call you."

"You know my name," she mutters.

"I mean do you have a first name?" She doesn't answer, so I nudge her shoulder with my fist and tease, "I know you're on a first name basis with at least one of us."

The girl seems to ignore me for a moment, idly swirling a foot in the bath. Finally she raises her eyes to mine again and says, "It's Katniss."

"Catpiss?" I tease her with a sizeable smirk. I can't help myself.

"Original." She drops her gaze back to the water. "What's yours?"

"Johanna."

Katniss nods in acknowledgement and hums to herself before finally asking, "So, Johanna Mason, what do you think of your new home? And your new boss?"

"I think they both suck," I state bluntly. She laughs a little.

"How observant." She bites her lip and drums her fingers on her thighs, eventually reinitiates eye contact and discloses, "I'm not used to hearing Peacekeepers calling him out." I can't be sure, but from her tone of voice I think that was a compliment.

"Hardly as impressive as a local calling him out," I praise her in return. That's not empty flattery; I did find it impressive. I like her rebellious spirit a lot more when it isn't directed at me.

"I didn't mean to say that out loud," she admits. "I'd normally never say anything like that." She catches my eye purposively and reminds me, "It's been a rough day."

"You'd be smart to keep your rough days to a minimum, Everdeen," I advise her, ignoring that obvious jab at my own behavior. "Who knows how far you have to push him before he'll make good on that threat?"

"It'll never happen," she declares coolly. "Cray's not a fan of gore. And his threats tend to be idle. He doesn't care much about actually upholding the law as long as things run smoothly for him."

Run smoothly. That's one way to put it. To think that I thought he seemed like such a sweet old man. Gross. No wonder Katniss was so offended when I made that joke earlier. I get a big kick out of offending people, to be fair, but it turns out that that quip was below the belt in more ways than one. I clear my throat while adjusting my positioning to a squat.

"Look, when I said that thing about Darius, I was joking," I confess, gazing down into the water. When I look back to Everdeen, she's eyeing me up, her expression unreadable. I twitch a corner of my mouth guiltily and continue, "I didn't realize that's something that actually happens around here."

"Well, not to me," she rejoins proudly. "I earn my money on my feet, not my knees or my back." I can't help but feel a touch of admiration for the girl, annoying as she is. She spends her free time braving the woods to try to feed her family rather than take the easy way out by, well, being easy. There's something badass about refusing to abandon one's morals and dignity. I'm just processing this thought when Katniss undermines it, her demeanor suddenly shifting. "If I couldn't hunt, I might have to, to be honest." She answers my wide eyes with a dispassionate shrug. "I have a little sister. It's not just me I have to worry about starving."

"You'd really do that?" I jerk my head towards the door, indicating the old man outside. I'm met with a blank stare and blunt reply.

"We do whatever we have to do to survive around here."

This sparks an unfamiliar anger in me. I'm no stranger to the emotion itself, but it's never been directed at the system before. Why would it be? I never had to even consider selling my body to get a decent meal. My biggest worry when it came to food was finding something nutritious enough to supplement my training. But had I been born elsewhere, that could have been me. And truly, this girl reminds me a little too much of myself. As much as I hate to admit it.

True to my word, I have the hunter dressed and back at Cray's door before long. I cast another glance at her feet while she checks the contents of her game bag. She's just lifting the strap over her head when I ask her, "Are you going to be fine to walk home?"

"Oh, so now you care if I can walk?" she snarks. "Besides, I thought you said I'd be fine."

"And I'm sure you will be," I retort. Another eyeful of her attitude and I sigh in frustration, "Never mind, forget I said anything." Everdeen studies me for a moment, her face slowly relenting.

"I'm heading to the Hob, actually," she finally says. "And I'll be okay. My mother's a healer and she'll be able to spot any complications." I should probably hide my sigh of relief, but I don't. I'm not one for giving apologies, especially to people I'm supposed to be policing, but I'd rather she understand that I regret my actions. I open the door and motion for her to exit, then follow her out. I pause at the top of the steps and stuff my hands into my pockets. Katniss notices my absence beside her and turns around a few steps into the snow.

"I was going to go buy some sunglasses if I could find any, but I forgot to bring money," I confess. "No point in me hitting up the town without anything to barter with. I'm just gonna head back to the barracks."

"Doesn't matter to me," she shrugs. I toe the smattering of powder under my foot for a moment before raising my head and a questioning eyebrow.

"I guess I'll see you around?" I venture.

I think I might detect a hint of a playful smirk when she replies, "God, I hope not."

* * *

><p>AN: Thanks for reading! This is my side project, so it might not get regular updates, but I'm having a lot of fun with it. That's not to say it will be all fun and games, of course. I'm still me ;). I attempted to give Johanna a unique voice compared to the narration style I use for Katniss, but I'm not sure how I did with that and would appreciate feedback on the matter. And feedback in general, of course. :)

It might be some time yet before I can update my main fic. I bumped my head again last week and have been working a lot, so I've had very limited energy available to devote to creative endeavours. Thanks for your patience. I hope that if you're a fan of Lifeblood you will at least enjoy this in the meantime.

Thanks to District-7-Profanity (a.k.a. BDewitt) for agreeing to beta yet another story for me.


	2. Future, Past

A/N: I didn't specify this at the start, but this fic will use a mix of book and movie canon, though more book canon because this story starts before the movies and so I have to utilize a lot of backstory, of which there isn't much in the films. Also, the films leave out a lot of the stuff about the Peacekeepers and the general culture of Twelve, the policy of benign neglect, etc. Some movie aesthetic will used, and some book. For instance, my conception of Katniss's appearance in this one is that she looks like JLaw but is a bit shorter and darker. Events will likely be more accurate to the books but I know that those will get mixed too eventually. I'm mentioning all this so no one gets confused when this becomes more noticeable later on, once we get to and beyond the 74th Games.

Also, thanks for waiting for an update while I focused on Lifeblood for awhile. I hope you all enjoy this one.

* * *

><p>"You have plans after work, or are you up for some illegal activity?"<p>

I look up at my comrade as we make our way to the hummer our replacements drove to our post. "Not even a week in and you're trying to corrupt me already, Hallett?" This is the second time in three shifts I've worked with Darius, though last time we were on square duty and had Troy with us. Today we were alone and stationed near the community home on the edge of the Seam, so I finally got my first taste of the slums while on patrol. It's depressing, to say the least.

"Makes no difference if you piss in yellow snow," the boy teases, nudging his forearm into my shoulder.

"Ouch," I retort playfully, returning the shove. "What makes you think I'm corrupt?"

"Just a feeling. You have a bad girl vibe." He seems to mean it as a compliment. I duck my head to hide my smile and just listen to the fresh powder crunching under our boots.

"Good," I finally say. "What kind of activity? Drugs? The Hob?"

"Hob, of course. It's Thursday, remember?" Oh, right. Darius told me all about this yesterday over some games of hoverpuck on our mutual day off, pitched it to me as a chance to see Cray and maybe the elusive Haymitch staggering around and tossing their guts. The most notorious local moonshiner routinely shows up with a new batch of her white liquor every Thursday, and since she often sells out by the time the weekend's over, a crowd is guaranteed. Because Thursday brings out all the drunkards, the miners who brew on the side usually show up that day too, with everything from stout to apple wine bottled and in tapped barrels. Darius claims it's a total shit show with high entertainment value.

"So you need a drinking buddy?"

"Something like that. Though I doubt you'll get much down before it comes back up. Ripper's shit could take the paint off the side of a house. Stuff's lethal." I narrow my eyes at him and his grin only widens. "We might have to start you off on that apple wine," he taunts me, eyes glinting mischievously as I level a harsh glare at him.

"A: Fuck you, I'll drink you under the table," I sneer. "B: Wine gives me terrible hangovers. I'll stick to the hard stuff, thank you very much." I speed up to distance myself from him and then call over my shoulder, "Oh, and C: I'm broke right now, so you're buying."

"Which might worry me if I actually thought you could outdrink me," he replies, hustling to catch up. "You're not even legal age, how could you have a high alcohol tolerance already?" Being twenty-one, Darius has been legal for two years, but he probably started as soon as he got here three years ago and realized no one gave a shit. Even so, unless he indulged back in District Two, I have a head start on him.

"Legal age is totally arbitrary," I argue. "Besides, not everyone obeys the law back home, you know." I certainly didn't. If I had, I wouldn't be here. "I have two older siblings and an alcoholic uncle. Booze was easy enough to come by."

"Sorry I asked," he mutters. "But hey, if you're still bummed you were assigned here, think of it this way: at least in Twelve you can drink without having to worry about the Head Peacekeeper getting on your case."

"Well, it would be really hypocritical of him to crack down on underage drinking given his fondness for underage girls," I spit. I hear Darius stop in his tracks, and when I pivot to face him I find his mouth hanging open.

"How do you know about that?"

"What," I reply haughtily, "you think you're the only person I know in Twelve?"

"Actually, yeah," he replies bluntly.

"Don't flatter yourself, Hallett." I start to turn back toward the vehicle, but he grabs my sleeve and gives me a serious look.

"Be careful who you badmouth Cray around," he warns me. "He has a temper, remember."

"Oh, I know," I laugh ironically. The boy narrows his eyes inquisitively, but I hold his gaze despite my discomfort.

"Okay," he states, folding his arms, "there's something you're not telling me. What happened with you and Cray?" I've said too much already. I'm sure Everdeen was right and I would never live down the tale of how we met if it got out, but even if I wasn't concerned about my overall reputation, I don't want Darius to think badly of me. He's the closest thing to a friend I have in this place. But he's not going to let me get away without answering.

"I met your angry poacher friend," I nonchalantly inform him. He rubs his chin, his expression only hardening further.

"That boy needs to watch what he says around the district," Darius says gravely. "There's informants everywhere."

"What? No, I'm talking about a girl," I correct him. "She knows you from the Hob. The archer with the braid," I specify, as though I don't remember her name.

"Oh, Katniss," he smiles fondly, though the concern never leaves his eyes.

"Right, Katniss Everdeen. Anyway, she made a snide remark about it in front of Cray and he came down on her." Hallett's eyebrows shoot up so I quickly tack on, "Don't worry, she's fine. All she got was a tongue-lashing. And a smack upside the head."

"Still, that's not like her," he muses.

"I guess she was having a rough day." I can tell he's still confused and dissatisfied with my answer, but I don't want to go into any more details. Or for him to seek them out elsewhere. "Better not mention it to her," I suggest casually. "The whole thing was kind of embarrassing for her."

"Okay, then," he agrees waveringly. "I won't." He then changes the subject as quickly as he snaps an impish grin back onto his face. "You wanna drive?" he asks, whipping the keys out of his pocket and dangling them in front of my face.

"Hell yes!" I shout, snatching them from his grasp. I've never driven before, but I've been a passenger enough times to sort of know how, and I've always wanted to try. Darius just laughs at my enthusiasm as we traverse the remaining distance to the vehicle.

"You know how to drive stick?"

A delicious smirk takes over my face before I even start to answer. "No," I wink, "but if you wanna teach me, I'm up for it." His suddenly mute, open mouth betrays how successful that attempt to throw him was, but he quickly shakes it off and laughs uneasily.

"Pervert," he grunts. I just walk off swaggering my hips.

"Honey, you have no idea."

***o***

Truthfully, Darius isn't the only reason I'm here. Though I like the guy, he's a bit much. I was sick of him by yesterday afternoon after he took it upon himself to entertain me for the day, so I took to the woods again before dark. The downside of peace and quiet I found there was the lack of distraction from the thoughts and regrets that cloud my brain whenever it is otherwise unoccupied. There's not much peace and quiet to be had here on a Thursday evening at the Hob, but plenty of company. Unfortunately, the only truly familiar face in the crowd is Hallett's. No one would know, given all my bravado, but I can be painfully shy around people I don't know.

For all his talk, Darius is putting very little effort into outdrinking me. He's just sitting on the counter at a stall manned by some old woman, chatting her up and nursing a mug of something or other. I'm making decent progress on a small bottle of Ripper's liquor, the strength of which Darius aptly described earlier, but I'm no lightweight. I don't stumble at all on my way over to punch him in the knee.

"So much for me not being able to outdrink you," I sass him, jiggling the bottle in front of his face.

He bats my hand away and condescends, "I never said I was planning to get plastered. You assumed." He gestures at my drink. "But I promised I'd buy, so if you want to sit out sick tomorrow, by all means, drink up."

"You think I'm such a sad sack that I'm going to drink alone, Hallett?" I shoot back, heat rising in my cheeks. "Or are you just a pussy?" He lets out a boisterous laugh that is echoed by the old lady, so I deepen my glare. "What's so funny?"

"You're slurring," he informs me before pointing to the woman and proceeding to make introductions. "Mason, this is Greasy Sae. Sae, Johanna Mason. She's this abrasive even when sober."

"I'm not drunk!" I protest. "I'm perfectly in control of my fac- fa- facilities." This draws another howl of laughter from the boy and his companion. It's faculties, isn't it? Maybe I'm farther gone than I thought. I'm pretty sure Darius is too, though, hunched over and holding his aching belly through a laugh disproportionate to the humor in the situation. At least, in my opinion.

The nearby door squeaks loudly on its rusty hinges, and I snap my head around to peek over my shoulder at whoever's entering. It's just a couple of on-duty Peacekeepers. My eyes jump to Cray, who's embroiled in conversation with Ripper and doesn't seem to have noticed. Not that I'm sure he's sober enough to care.

"Who are you waiting for?" Darius asks.

"No one." I motion between him, Cray, and a small group of our fellow morning crew hanging out in a nearby corner. "Everyone I know is here." I'm sort of lying on both counts, but I'm hoping he doesn't remember that part of our conversation this afternoon. It was kind of stupid of me to assume I might run into the gutsy huntress here. It's a weekday, so she's probably in school until a couple hours before the sun goes down. She might not even have a chance to hunt. I leave Darius with Sae and head for our group of coworkers, partly to prove my point and partly because he's belittling and irritating me, but I'm not even halfway there before he catches up. Damn these tall people and their long ass legs. "What?" I scowl. "Ditching your girlfriend to follow some stupid drunkard around?"

"Hey now," he protests, lifting his hands in surrender, "I never said that." The glower has almost left my face by the time his cracks into a grin. "I think she's a little old for me." I smack his arm, yet smile all the same. He's kind of a dick, but at least he's funny. Much like me.

I actually start to enjoy myself a bit after that, making jokes and light-hearted conversation with the other Peacekeepers. It's all surface-level bullshit, but I haven't had enough of anything light-hearted recently. Or in my life at all, really. Part of that's my fault for being so drawn to darkness. My most recent relationship is proof enough of that.

It's been maybe ten minutes by the time the on-duty guys join our group and I sneak another look at Ripper's table to assess Cray's reaction. I don't see him, but my stomach jumps when my eyes land on a familiar braid and jacket over by Greasy Sae's stall. I must have been too distracted to notice her coming in. I don't consider whether to approach her or stick with the group; some force pulls me toward her without the need for any conscious thought. I stealthily slip up beside her before leaning back against the counter and pulling on my best smirk.

"Hey, brainless," I purr.

The younger girl cocks an eyebrow and pointedly observes, "Oh, it's you."

I force the grin to stay on my face and reply, "At least I didn't call you Catpiss."

"I guess I should be grateful," she deadpans, but the small upward quirk of one corner of her mouth calms me, and my face relaxes into a more genuine smile.

"How are you?" I inquire, meaningfully flicking my eyes down to her feet.

"Clean bill of health, no thanks to you," she retorts. And Darius called me abrasive.

"Glad to hear it," I reply evenly, purposely ignoring that remark. I twitch my eyebrows and casually conclude, "In that case, I'll leave you alone." Two can play that game. However, I can't stop myself from peeking over my shoulder after strolling a few steps. She's watching me, and I let a catlike grin take over my face as I keep walking, right into a tall, hard body. I stumble back a step on the rebound and crane my neck up to get a look at the man I crashed into. He looks like a male version of Everdeen: every bit as attractive, same dark hair and piercing grey eyes, same olive skin and grouchy disposition. He's scrawny like her but about Darius's height, and definitely older, not underage. Maybe for drinking, but not other things. I lick my lips and grin once again, fluttering my eyelashes.

"Hello, handsome," I drawl. "You know, you'd be a lot prettier if you smiled." I'm just kidding. He can scowl at me like that any day. Or night. The young man just stares at me in silent disbelief, but a cackle slowly rises up behind me.

"I've been telling him something like that for years, sweetheart," laughs Greasy Sae. "Don't bother waiting on that. If you want a jolly man, stick with your redheaded friend."

"Pffft," I snort, swiveling to face her, "I'm not into Darius like that."

I catch Everdeen's eye almost immediately. She has her poker face on again, but I can tell she's annoyed. That's explained very quickly when she snaps, "Mason. This is my hunting partner, Gale." I think I spy a hint of jealousy. Maybe she has a thing for her not-boyfriend after all.

"That's a girl's name," I giggle, masking my sudden unease.

"It's spelled differently," the boy scoffs from behind me. He even has Everdeen's deep voice. Damn. "Like a windstorm."

I smirk at him over my shoulder. "Stormy. How fitting." He's still eyeing me sourly when Darius sidles up to him, claps him on the shoulder, and asks what the haul was like today.

"Your little shadow," Sae whispers, drawing my attention back to her and Katniss. She winks, and I just roll my eyes. Her smirk only grows when Darius slings an arm around my neck a moment later.

"My three favorite ladies, all in one place!" he proclaims heartily.

"Shoo, you big lug," the old woman chuckles, flicking her dishtowel at him. "You're scaring away my customers with your shouting."

"Oh, really?" he blusters. "I'd think I'd be attracting them. Buy your soup, get some eye candy on the side." He flexes his free arm and morphs his face into an expression much more ridiculous than seductive. Maybe it's the alcohol, but I find myself keeling over in laughter. It probably isn't just the alcohol, actually, because even Katniss is laughing.

"No, no," I gasp between peals of laughter. "They're the eye candy." I point at the hunters. "You're just a pasty redhead."

Darius folds his arms and glowers down at me theatrically. "Excuse me, Agent Mason," he huffs, "but I'll have you know that redheaded men are known for having particular… talents."

"Like verbal diarrhea?" I sass him with a cocked eyebrow.

"All right, that's enough," Greasy Sae cuts in. "I'm telling Ripper and the boys both of you are cut off if you don't scoot."

"Fine," Darius groans. "Ruin all our fun." He tugs my arm on his way deeper into the warehouse. "Come on, Jo."

"Don't call me that, I told you," I growl as I turn and catch up with him. He's eyeing me teasingly and opening his mouth to argue when we're interrupted by a familiar voice behind us.

"Darius, have you seen the baker?" The boy looks over my head to make eye contact with Katniss.

"Mellark? No, why?"

"I was saving a squirrel for him," she explains as I feel and hear her brushing up beside me as we continue to walk. I glance over to find her eyes already on me, but they instantly drop to her game bag. "If he doesn't show, you want the little fella?"

"Don't know if I can afford it," says Darius. "I already paid to get our tiny friend drunk tonight."

"I'm not drunk!" I protest.

"Yes, you are," he counters assuredly.

"That might be why he's not here, come to think of it," Everdeen muses. "Probably saving up to buy a turkey from us in a couple weeks." She's referring to the Harvest Festival coming up in a little over two weeks. It's not exactly a holiday; we still have to work. Well, I don't have to because it's celebrated on a Sunday, but Darius and the others I know well are all working. Purnia has Sundays off too, but I'm not exactly friends with the ice queen, so I guess there won't be much of a celebration for me. It's far from what I'm used to.

"Hey," Darius barks, snapping his fingers in front of my face. I blink up to meet his eyes, which narrow. "Watch where you're walking. You off in la la land?"

"Just thinking about the Festival in the Square," I admit wistfully. "When the Tour would come through."

"You've been?" he gawks. "I thought you lived a ways out from the city."

"Not that far. Besides," I add slyly, "I may have been invited a couple times because I knew the victor." All the kids in the candidacy program for DV were always invited to the Victory Tour, actually, whether District 2 won or not, and we've had two victors since I formally declared my interest and joined at the age of ten. Three victors, if you count this year.

"Really?" Hallett inquires, genuinely curious. "Who?"

"It's rude to name drop," I tease him evasively.

"You're full of shit," he scoffs.

"Whatever, it doesn't matter," I concede. I don't want to talk about the program or any of that right now. "Point is, I've been there. It's a riot." My eyes flit over to our armed on-duty comrades and I clarify, "In a good way."

"You mean if your district won?" Everdeen's low and quiet voice comes from my other side.

"Yeah. Whenever we win, we mix our Harvest Festival celebrations with the Victory Tour ones because they end up falling on the same day," I explain. The girl's eyes dart away. Her face twists a little and she starts sort of chewing on her lip. "What?" I ask. "Don't you do the same here?" Her eyes meet mine again, and despite her suddenly expressionless face, I can distinctly make out the anger burning in those grey orbs.

"How drunk are you?" she asks blankly, with the tiniest hint of sarcasm. "'Tribute' is pretty much synonymous with 'corpse' in Twelve. You know how many victors we've had in seventy-five years?" Of course not. All I know is that Haymitch is the only semi-recent one.

"Three? Four?" I extrapolate.

"Two," she answers evenly. "And none in my lifetime. So, no, I've never been to a big party at the end of the Tour." Her words dig into my conscience thanks to the subtle edge in her tone. I shift uncomfortably and glance over at Darius, who is pretending to be conveniently distracted by someone across the room. I begrudgingly look back to Katniss, who again holds my gaze intently, but her eyes convey frustration more than anger now. And maybe a bit of fear. Of my reaction, probably. But I'm not about to give her grief or punishment for accurately pointing out that her district is disadvantaged in the Games and has less reason to celebrate. I would have questioned that fact before I got here, but not now. My pride urges me to mock the girl for being touchy, but I can tell she's actually a bit upset and I don't really want to make it worse. Or get on her bad side. I'm never going to tell her that I'd been planning to volunteer this year. Somehow, I doubt that would go over well.

"I'll buy your squirrel," Darius offers with a weak smile, easing the tension slightly. "Jo still needs her first taste of backwoods cuisine."

"Seriously, don't," I repeat, punching his arm hard enough to stress that it's no joke. "My ex used to call me that, and thinking about her sends me into fits of rage I'm sure you'd rather not see." To be fair, Clove wasn't the only one; most of the candidates addressed me as Jo. But thinking about any of them is painful these days. I'd rather lose myself in this new life, as much as I don't care for it.

Darius halts mid-step, boot scuffing the dusty floorboards. "Her?" He asks, intrigued eyes giving me a onceover when I stop and turn around. I bite my lip and bounce my eyes between him and Katniss, whose face is still remarkably impassive. Then again, maybe she isn't surprised, or just doesn't care.

"What?" I sputter. "You have a problem with that?"

"Not at all," Darius grins lecherously, throwing me a wink. I roll my eyes. "I just didn't peg you for a homo."

My mouth puckers. "Who actually uses that word anymore, Hallett? What century are we living in?" It's not really an insult, but it's definitely obsolete. Most people in Two don't bother to classify each other by sexual preferences when it comes to gender, or anything else.

"I've heard it around," he shrugs innocently. I don't bother asking where, because I honestly don't even care.

"What's a homo?" Katniss inquires after a long beat. I smile a little despite myself.

"Homosexual," I say. "Means someone who fucks the same sex, not the opposite sex."

"Oh," she mumbles, eyes flitting away. Even through her darker skin, I pick up on red tinge surfacing in her grubby, sweat-stained complexion. She's sure easy to embarrass. "We don't have a word for that here."

"You mean there's no one like that around?" I ask in disbelief. That's not possible. Maybe it's just a social taboo here and no one speaks of it; I mean, this is hick country.

"No, there is," Darius answers for her. I shoot him a look before returning my attention to the younger girl to let her answer if she so desires. She says nothing. "Don't worry," the redhead continues. "It's the same as back home. No one's gonna bully you over it."

"Of course they won't," I snap. "Because I'm not a homo." Off his obvious bewilderment, I explain, "I like boys too. I don't know what the word for that is."

"Me neither," Darius admits. The twinkle in his eye slowly returns along with a cunning smile. "Then I didn't peg you so wrong after all, Jo." My face hardens, and he immediately backpedals, "I mean, Mason. Johanna. Please don't hit me." I smirk a little at his obviously exaggerated cowardice. He has no idea I could kill him with my bare hands or any of a variety of weapons. The mere thought is enough to make this whole conversation so much more palatable.

"If you feel the need to shorten my name," I tell them, "you can call me Hanna." That was what my family called me. Most of my memories associated with them are pleasant, or at least not currently causing me to want to throw myself down a mineshaft, so it's a better alternative.

"Hanna?" Katniss probes. She hasn't seen my name spelled out like Darius has.

"Silent H," I explain. Darius suddenly breaks into laughter, and we both look his way.

"Can I call you silent homo?" he sniggers.

"I'm not a homo," I reiterate warningly.

"And definitely not silent," Katniss pitches in. "You're almost as bad as him."

"Okay, I give up," I declare, backing away and flipping them both off jokingly. "You guys eat your damn squirrel. I'm gonna go find some people who actually like me."

As I'm stalking off toward the group of Peacekeepers, I hear Darius call after me, "Good luck with that!" I flip him off again over my shoulder, but I'm smiling. I don't exactly relish being picked on, but when it's good-natured, I know it bodes well for the future. It means I belong.

***o***

"Ladies and gentlemen, the victor of the 73rd Hunger Games, Scarlett Caskey," Mayor Undersee's voice booms from the speakers. Polite but faint applause from those herded into the square greets the towering 17 year-old, who smiles broadly and waves as though the lack of enthusiasm doesn't faze her in the slightest. And I'm sure it doesn't. We were always taught to have a thick skin. Scar surely wasn't expecting the warmest welcome from the people of Twelve, anyway, given her involvement in the deaths of both their tributes. She slit the boy's throat personally in the bloodbath and was part of a diabolical Career pack that stalked the girl until she opted to fall on her own knife rather than face a humiliating and possibly slow death at their hands. Scar was very business-like about her kills and not the type to taunt or torture a fellow tribute, but she was there, and thus guilty by association.

It doesn't surprise me one bit that Scar keeps her words about the female tribute even more short and to the point than her kills. The girl's choice was much maligned back in District 2 because she died dishonorably, and in the Capitol because suicides are anticlimactic. I understand her motivation, however. There is a certain rebellious glory in going out on your own terms, so to speak, rather being stripped of your power in your final moments. Or hours, if they decide to draw it out, which is another good reason to end it before they catch you. Careers rarely die slowly, though, so I always pushed aside any worry about the possibility.

I'm grateful that I don't have to feign any positive emotion on pain of imprisonment in this situation, unlike the locals. The glazed-over somber mood in the square doesn't help the acute pain in my chest or the burbling of my stomach. Being stationed on the stage is particularly cruel. I'm twenty feet from where I should be, twenty feet I will never traverse. The regret is crushing my mind, and apparently my lungs as well. Regret for not pushing for my own selection last year, for deferring to Scar and taking another year to mature and train. Scar never would have gotten into the mess I did. We both would have gotten our chance.

It's a mercifully short few minutes before the victor is saying her final thank-you and retreating back inside the Justice Building. Seeing her again at all, let alone in this context, is extremely painful, but I can't drag my eyes away. I wait for her to make eye contact and smile, like she always did. She walks right past me. Unbelievable. I wasn't three feet away, and a girl I've known for a good six years just looked right through me like I wasn't even there. This fucking uniform is something else. My face and neck burn as I wheel in time with my partner across from me to march out behind her. We pass our comrades at the doors, and suddenly there is nothing between her and me but the uniform. And twenty feet, yet again. I'm not supposed to break rank until she and her entourage have made back to the prep rooms, but I'm not just another one of these drones. I'm not just another face in the crowd. I have a name.

"Scar!" I call out, speeding up a little, but I get no reaction. Maybe I'm inaudible as well as invisible. I try once more, louder and deeper. "Hey, beanstalk!" Scar pauses and turns her head in surprise, and she finally catches my eye. Despite my inner turmoil, a grin splits my face wide open.

"Jo!" she hails back, immediately backtracking her steps. I have a name. It's painful to hear, but I have one. Scar catches me off guard by grabbing one of my biceps and pulling me into a tight hug the second I'm within her reach. It's not like we've never hugged before, but we're not really what you'd called friends, nor are we exceptionally close. In fact, we were rivals more than anything for a long time. I resented her at first because she joined the program after me and was the same age, but as other potential candidates dropped out over the years it became an unchallenged assumption that we would be selected at 17 and 18 for the 73rd and 74th Games, though the order was up in the air. Once the competition died down, we were able to settle into a more amicable relationship, but we still rarely saw each other or had the chance to train together because our villages were not even remotely close. That's where Clove came in.

"You don't mind if I steal your comrade, do you?" she rhetorically asks my partner over my head. There are a few more of us back here, but there's no officers to object right now, won't be until the mayor's closing statement is over.

"I'm off now, actually," I fib into her chest. It's close enough to the truth. "I'm usually off at two, but duty calls when there's big events."

"Scarlett!" a familiar male voice shrills from behind me, causing me to grimace. One thing I won't regret missing out on as a tribute is listening to him all fucking day. "We have a schedule to keep."

"Five minutes, Xavier," she insists. "She's an old friend." Okay, maybe I was wrong about that. Before I know it, I'm being dragged into a stuffy, dark elevator. Scar says nothing more until the doors have closed behind us, even for a few seconds after that. "I kind of feel like I'm seeing a ghost," she finally says without warning, looking over to make eye contact.

"I guess the outfit doesn't help," I crack, sweeping a hand over the all white ensemble. She laughs. I smile. This is routine for us. This almost feels normal.

"I mean I never thought I'd see you again," she rephrases, poking me in the shoulder. "Though you are one of the last people I ever thought I'd see decked out in white." She clears her throat and looks forward again. "I mean, I heard you enlisted, but I kind of thought you'd offed yourself and that was just some bullshit cover story."

My face scrunches up, but she's not looking at me, so I have to verbalize, "Why would I do something like that?"

Scar catches my eye again, her face suddenly dark. She peeks out into the hallway once the elevator slows and its doors open, but even though we appear to be alone, she remains silent until she's pulled me a good thirty feet down the hall and into her prep room. "Listen," she whispers urgently once the heavy wooden door clicks shut behind us, "I know what Clove did to you." My eyes bulge in alarm. "Don't worry, it's not like it's public knowledge," she immediately adds. "You're fine." I release a heavy sigh of relief. "I figured it out on my own."

"How?" I demand, narrow-eyed.

"Logic," she smiles wryly. "Just because I'm pretty doesn't mean I'm stupid. You're proof enough that the two don't always go hand in hand." I blink away as I feel a blush creeping up my neck. Maybe I should have been with Scar instead of Clove. Things would have turned out much better. But she's not really my type, and I don't think she's into girls that way. She's just sly and flirtatious. Like me. She played those strengths and her striking natural beauty to her advantage in the Games. She didn't exactly pull a Finnick Odair, but she was never wanting for parachutes. Not only was she considered one of the more gorgeous tributes with that dirty blond mane, those stunning hazel eyes and perfect cheekbones, but she had the build of a victor and wouldn't be considered a long shot by anyone. She's clearly from a family of stonecutters, tall and broad-shouldered and well-muscled. There's a reason I resented her and found her intimidating early on. "I'm not the only one."

"Huh?"

"Other people have figured it out," she repeats. "Who knew both of you." I guess that's not too surprising, even if the one person I told besides my family didn't blab. Clove and I didn't exactly keep the fact that we'd evolved into more than training partners under wraps. Being closely associated with a known troublemaker was probably not my finest life choice. But I like trouble.

"I told Jasper," I admit.

"What for?" gapes Scar.

"I needed advice!" I practically shout. He seemed the best person to go to at the time, being one of the bigwigs in the candidacy program and someone I considered a friend of sorts. "I didn't know what to do. Blackmail's a new one on me."

"What did he say?"

"'Sorry, Johanna,'" I boom in a deep pitch, "'but technically, you broke the law.'" Returning to my normal voice, I elaborate, "He said he knew the politics of the committee well and that if charges were laid there's no way they'd select me even if I didn't go to prison, and there was nothing he could do about it. Basically."

"Wow," she breathes. "What a dick."

I sigh resignedly and sink down onto a nearby velvet couch. I pull my helmet off, drop it beside me, and eagerly comb my gloved fingers through the freed black tresses. "He was right, though," I croak, "I did break the law."

"Yeah, but it's total bullshit," Scar instantly replies, concern filling her face as she sits herself down beside me. "No one actually sees you as a criminal, you know. There should be a loophole for–"

"Yeah, but there isn't," I snap. "And Clove knew that, I'll bet, and she waited until the perfect fucking moment to betray me."

Scar bites her lip and squints, silently mulling something over. "Do you think she always planned to do that?" she eventually asks. "Because that's a lot of time and effort to commit to fucking someone over."

"I don't know," I admit. "I think about that all the time. It's plausible. Clove's shifty like that." I stare at the thick, luxurious carpet and let a moment of silence pass before I tell Scar, "I like to think so." I catch her eye and confess, "It's less painful that way." She takes my nearest hand in one of hers and gives it a gentle squeeze.

"I'm sorry." Her grip slowly tightens, so I blink up to her face and see it is also morphing with intensity. "Even if I didn't care what happened to you, what she did was selfish and bad for the district." She holds my gaze meaningfully. "You were really something. Our best shot at repeating, for sure." I know that was meant to be a compliment, but it's more like a knife in the gut. I'm not something anymore. And even if she hadn't phrased it in the past tense, the whole idea feels painfully foreign. It's only my tenth day in town, but I almost feel unable to connect with who I was now that I've been thrown into this disorienting new world. Even back in Peacekeeper training, I was starting to feel a certain dissociation, but it's getting worse, fast.

I shake these unpleasant thoughts from my head and point out, "What about Cato?"

"Naw," she argues. "Your skill set is much more diverse and you're way smarter."

"And I have the cooler head." I quip. Scar snorts, and before I know it we're both laughing hysterically, because it's better than crying. I was never known for my emotional restraint – that was Scar's hallmark – but I'd have to be on the rag and starving to rival the volatility of the monstrous blond brute.

"That's good," she snickers. "Keep your sense of humor, if you can." She sighs wistfully and squeezes my hand again. "I miss you, Jo."

I miss Jo too. But I can't help feeling she's not coming back.

* * *

><p>AN: I split what I'd planned to be one chapter in half so I could develop the rest of it without worrying about length, so this one is pretty short. Hopefully that next one will be coming soon. I'm not sure yet if I'm going to focus on that or chapter 11 of Lifeblood first.

Thanks to D7P for the beta read, as always.

UPDATE: I've made a small adjustment to the layout of the Justice Building. Nothing that really affects the plot, but since I changed it I figured I should mention it.


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